


The Monster She Made

by cloudedcastles



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Blood and Injury, Dark(er) Hermione Granger, Espionage, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Non-Consensual Elements, Possessive Draco Malfoy, Romance, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27953846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudedcastles/pseuds/cloudedcastles
Summary: Hermione unwittingly raises Draco from the dead during the Battle of Hogwarts, leading to dark and unexpected consequences for them in a continually war-torn wizarding world.Or, a Frankenstein AU.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	The Monster She Made

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Hi all! The Monster She Made is a Dramione slow-burn loosely inspired by **Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein**. This is less-so a Voldemort Wins and more-so a The War Continues, or The Order Doesn’t Win. (Voldemort himself, however, loses. Good riddance.) As such, the story contains depictions of war and violence, so the material may be triggering ( **potential triggers include: graphic violence, gore, torture, and dubious consent** ). I will try to include TWs for every chapter going forward. But, as always, mind your mental health and proceed reading with caution.
> 
> This fic is primarily canon-compliant up until the destruction of Hufflepuff’s Cup and the Battle of Hogwarts. The timeline is slightly shifted, with the destruction of the cup occurring in the midst of the battle and Hermione decidedly doing it alone.

* * *

On a day when doom’s tendrils enveloped Hogwarts, marking what would be the place of great tragedy and strife, Hermione Granger—for the first time in her life—used a potion without knowing exactly what its effects would be.

On that same day, Draco Malfoy perished.

* * *

Before the Battle of Hogwarts commenced, Hermione anxiously slid a small vial into her jacket pocket. It was what had become quite a clandestine endeavor for her, having been presented with the school’s potion stores and kits after many months of being a resident of both everywhere and nowhere. Once in the castle, her mind had, on a subconscious impulse, been drawn to the possibilities at her fingertips. Without being missing for long enough to draw attention, Hermione slipped into the dungeons to take advantage of the ominously unattended but heart-wrenchingly familiar cauldrons.

However, the idea itself had been forming long before her return to Hogwarts.

In the dark, chilling nights of the tent, Hermione had plenty of time to think beyond the scope of Horcruxes and swords and fangs. Having had a decent affinity for potions and a fervor for research, she wondered if they were skills that may save her friends when their reckoning day finally came. More than a wonder—it was an intrusive barrage of questions that plagued her nightly thoughts...

_What if they lost? What if they died? Worse, what if it was her that couldn’t save them?_

Her mother used to tell her she could hear Hermione thinking from the opposite side of the room. If anything, the inner-voice only got louder as the years went on. It tirelessly worried and worked at the puzzles that were the future. It had a compulsion to be ingenious. To somehow be the thing which would solve events that had yet to happen.

Funny, considering her absolute hatred of Divination.

Regardless, it was those kinds of thoughts that pushed her into zealously creating. Into brewing something that her mind believed would solve the future conundrum that was keeping her friends alive.

She walked a fine line between omnipotent arrogance and soul-crushing anxiety.

After all, how does one pull a person from the brink of death?

_Something like Pepperup to maintain body heat. Keeping the blood hot and pumping. Mandrake root..._

_Something like Wide-eye to pull them back from unconsciousness. An added precaution for any head injury. Certainly dried Billywig stings would be needed. Wolfsbane?_

_No—_

_Something more like Invigoration Draught to heighten adrenaline and energy. Fight of the effects of shock on the body. Infusion of Wormwood. Scurvy grass to keep them from septic shock. Honeywater..._

_Something like Wit-sharpening to clear the mind in case they need to get back to the fight quickly. But it would also add to the risk of panic and shock. Perhaps just the ground scarab beetles... which would likewise benefit any bone fractures._

_Something like Polyjuice, but not quite. Something powerful enough to change the body structures—to alter the state of internal organs and physical ailments—but not so powerful as to morph the patient into someone else. Most definitely Bicorn horn._

These were the musings she chased while she expected the worst to come. It wasn’t that she lacked faith in Harry’s ability to defeat Voldemort or in her own ability to help him. It was the worry that, in the time it would ultimately take for that to happen, so many could be lost.

She had to try everything in her power—so that she would never look back and wonder if she had done enough. If there was something horrible that she could have stopped.

Going to the potions classroom, Hermione was on borrowed time. She barely had enough of it to brew the potion, let alone to test it. Thus, the shadowy liquid was intended to be a last resort—a final effort if all else failed. Otherwise, it would not be worth the risk. It could do more harm than good.

It was an unknown. And she fucking hated the unknown.

Still, the potion was nestled in her pocket as she raced toward the Chamber of Secrets. Just in case.

It was supposed to be Ron, really. They had both prepared to go to the chamber and destroy Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup—practicing the parseltongue, memorizing Harry’s directions for finding the fang, steeling their wills for when it fought back. She had assumed they would at least go together—but battle wrought different plans. Ron couldn’t be spared and the time to destroy every last Horcrux was dwindling fast. The cup was in _her_ bag and _she_ had the cleared path to go. So she did.

She ran down the second-floor corridor, her jacket stifling her sweat and imprisoning grime upon her body. The slap of her trainers echoed off the stones.

Rounding the corner, she slammed into Katie Bell.

“Katie!”

“Hermione! Where are you going?” Katie had lines of blood crusting beneath her nose, but she had clearly retained her strength, clutching firmly onto Hermione’s forearms.

“There’s something I have to do,” Hermione said, the silent continuation of _or else_ hanging in the air.

Katie searched her face, apparently finding enough there to firmly nod and say, “I’ll cover you.”

“Thank you,” Hermione answered quickly but sincerely, not sparing another glance at Katie as she took off again.

From there, it happened in flashes.

The girls' lavatory. Her shoes squeaking on the tiles.

The snake-engraved sink tap.

The descent into the corridor. Into darkness.

The parseltongue she had to repeat twice because she stumbled over the words the first time.

The basilisk’s hulking skeleton. Ripping the fang from its otherwise decayed mouth.

Placing the cup on the ground.

Deep, steadying breaths.

The swift and forceful swing of her arm as the fang pierced the cup.

It had gone as smoothly as she could hope, even as a wave of water chased her through the chamber and crashed over her. She was panting and shivering, but the cup was destroyed. She destroyed it. They were one step closer to Voldemort’s demise.

But there was no time to rest. She cast a drying charm and followed the light back out into Hogwarts.

Through a careful marrying of _ascendio_ and tightly gripped rubble, Hermione rose back to the chamber’s entrance. She was pulling herself up into the light as her mind prepared for the battle she was about to return to.

It was then that he took her by surprise. She wasn’t expecting anyone to be there when she came out of the passageway.

“Well, well, well. Looks like I caught a mouse scurrying out of her hole.”

Her adrenaline spiked within the span of a heartbeat, wand lifting as she spun, but she didn’t get it up in time—

“ _Crucio_.”

Her body seized as it was struck, her legs immediately giving out. She just barely noticed the sensation of her head cracking against the edge of a sink on her way down.

It was like a live wire had been shoved down her throat... down, down, down until it burned everything inside her. The pain radiated through each nerve ending, each appendage. Her screams were distant land as an endless sea of suffering stretched before her. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, days.

She couldn’t compare the experience to her torture at Malfoy Manor. Because doing so would have required coherent thoughts. And, in a true crime against her nature, none could form.

He paused long enough for her to come to and she finally saw the Death Eater’s bearded face, his jagged and toothy smile. He nodded toward the chamber’s entrance.

“Would you like to tell me where that leads to before I kill you, little mouse?”

She let out a pained moan, struggling to find her voice. She wasn’t sure what her impulse was in the moment—perhaps a reflex of being a rightly regarded know-it-all—when all that made its way to the Death Eater was, “The boy’s lavatory is down the hall.”

His gaze darkened, unamused, wand raising to deliver a fatal blow—

“What are you doing, Macnair?”

She knew that voice. It was flat and toneless, betraying nothing. But she had heard it take on many qualities over the years. Amused as he ate dinner with his friends. Acidic as he mocked her. Brittle as his childhood self faded away into a shell.

“It’s none of your concern, Malfoy.”

She heard smooth, familiar strides coming toward where she lay.

“You don’t want to kill that one. The Dark Lord will want her alive.”

She felt hands hoisting her up. Long fingers gripping her, their chill seeping through her sleeve. She could still feel the currents of the curse lingering in the nerves of her body. She shuddered uncontrollably against the hold.

Macnair scowled at Draco. “Who cares? They’re dying left and right. He’ll never know who got her.”

Draco’s eyes flashed, locked onto Macnair. Despite being younger and slighter, Draco matched the authority that Macnair tried to wield. It was a silent battle between them, and Hermione couldn’t for the life of her fathom who was winning.

Finally, Macnair broke the silence. “Finders keepers,” he hissed decidedly, a gloating spark in his gaze.

She felt Draco’s grip relax. Her heart slammed in her chest. This was it, the final spiteful act of Draco against her after all these years. Macnair must have also sensed Draco shift, assuming compliance, because he smirked as he directed his wand at her.

Things moved both extremely slowly and incredibly fast in the next moment.

Macnair shot a curse toward Hermione and Draco raised his own wand at Macnair so quickly that they cast almost simultaneously. But what was impossible to fathom in the shortest blink of an eye was Draco’s shift to stand in front of Hermione. Shielding her.

As the green jet from Draco’s wand struck Macnair square in the chest, a spell of a different color collided with Draco.

She wasn’t sure what she was seeing at first. The Death Eater dropped like a stone. Draco staggered forward for a moment, not facing Hermione but remaining upright. Her hands felt at the blood flowing from a gash on her head as she prepared to confront him. To fight him. To... thank him?

But not a moment later, Draco fell hard onto his back. He let out only a strangled noise and, as Hermione got closer, she realized it was because he couldn’t scream. A cut across his throat was preventing him.

The curse was like _sectumsempra_ , but more fatally perverse. Long, bone-deep cuts riddled his body. One ran down his face, right into the path of his eye—which was now filling with blood, potentially blinded or ruptured. His arm was nearly completely severed, hanging by just a few remaining muscles. She could see the white of his femur bone and the spillage of one of his intestines.

She gagged.

It wasn’t an injury on the Quidditch pitch. It wasn’t a bad hit in a duel. It wasn’t simply an Unforgiveable. It was dark, insidious magic. It was getting spliced a hundred ways in an instant.

Draco’s blood pooled around him and Hermione dropped to her knees in it at his side.

She expected his one visible grey eye to be swiveling in fear. For his pupil to be blown wide. But it was almost... normal. The way it looked when his gaze, on a rare occasion, caught hers across a classroom. It certainly flickered and twitched with the pain, but it was not terrified.

* * *

This was not the first time he had bled out onto a bathroom floor.

But, this time, he did not cringe away from the face that hovered above him.

* * *

It must have been a trick of her eye, but she could have sworn she saw the ghost of a smirk flash across his blood-spattered lips. It was enough to ignite a dormant fire within her.

“You—you—” She searched for the words. “You bloody idiot.”

Yet, as the words came out, her frantic hands betrayed any contempt in her voice. They flitted over him, unsure of where to help. Where _not_ to help. Where to even start.

He had spared her, Harry, and Ron at the Manor—but there had been the possibility for so many ulterior motives, she hadn’t let herself think that there was too much more to his choice. But this?

He was dying. For her. What on this Earth could possibly explain that?

Perhaps he saw this as a losing battle for his side, seeking a quick death—but no, this was not quick nor painless.

Perhaps he wished to become a martyr.

If she wasn’t so stricken she might have laughed at the thought.

Hermione cupped her hand around his throat, applying pressure to the blood flow. Draco’s eyes fell shut. When she used the other hand to grab at her wand to do something— _anything_ —the vial clinked against the tile as it finally slid from her pocket.

Her eyes zeroed in on the potion. It couldn’t do more harm than _this_. And—no matter how different things were when she had woken up that morning—Draco was someone she couldn’t let die. At least without her knowing _why_ he was dying _for her_ in the first place. It was so like him. To forever torture her by leaving Hermione with something she could never truly know.

Hermione made the call without really even realizing she did it.

Her fingers pried his lips open wider. With her own blood and his slicking her hands, Hermione fumbled with the vial as she poured its contents into his mouth.

The liquid was murky, but not as viscous as it seemed in the bottle. It went smoothly down his throat, meeting no resistance or spurred coughing fits.

Because what Hermione did _not_ know as she administered the potion, was that Draco Malfoy was already dead. His heart, stopped. His blood, depleted. His soul... well, that could never be known for certain.

The window for healing had passed. Though Hermione was oblivious to it, this was something else entirely.

Suddenly, something swept through Draco’s body with a hard tremor. His back arched upward and Hermione’s breath caught. _Was he_ —

But he stilled again. The silence echoed through the bathroom.

“Come on,” Hermione murmured, still riding the flicker of hope from his body’s brief response. Nothing. She placed her hand on his chest, trying to will a beat to jump and meet her palm.

“Come _on_ ,” she said, more desperate. She had an abrupt punch of dread as she wondered if it had been _her_ potion that ultimately did him in. She couldn’t entertain the thought for long... her role in his death was undeniable, but it was not in her effort to save him.

She could feel Draco’s blood seeping into the knees of her jeans, but she didn’t move. Her eyes were glassy. _Just one more minute._

She didn’t have a minute.

Too soon, other noises began coming back to her. Rushing of feet... yelling... the sounds of stones fragmenting as curses hit them. And just like that, she was back in the midst of battle. She sucked in a sharp breath.

Something compelled her, in that moment, to protect him from those who might come upon him—a dark mark marring his arm, an enemy of the Order. Not knowing that he had—through some twist of reality—died on the right side.

Would he even want the Death Eaters to claim his body were it them who found him? She wasn’t sure of anything anymore when it came to Draco.

Hermione crouched, hooking his body under her arms and pulling his weight upon her chest. It was difficult to keep all of his limbs... assembled. Like his own body had forgone loyalty to him. Once she finally had him secured, her still recovering body throbbed as she began dragging him into the Chamber of Secrets. The place that, so many years ago, she and her friends had believed belonged to him.

Without a free hand to use her wand, Hermione worried as they mostly staggered and slid down into the chamber. The slipping alleviated the weight of him against her, but was certainly not gentle on his torn body.

She finally pulled him into the chamber, resting his torso and delicately guiding his head down onto the wet floor. She stood slightly to survey him. He looked so small amidst the pillars. Even under the blood and the injuries that would be described as ‘disfiguring,’ Hermione saw the boy she had spent years watching grow up. Though it was not a whimsical sort of nostalgia, the sight prompted a pang in her heart.

She stood there for an extra moment. Waiting. Sure that he would open his eyes any second and mock her for the troubled look on her face. _What’s the matter, Granger? Your fucking books didn’t tell you that not everyone gets a happy ever after? Why don’t you run and cry to Weasley about it._

But his grey eyes didn’t open. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even move a muscle.

And she had to go. She took a step back toward the exit, still facing him.

“Stay here,” Hermione said, voice cracking on the words. “I’ll...”

Come back for you? Tell your someone where to find your body?

This was war. And, before the day was done, she still needed to ensure the survival of her best friends, her mentors, the Order. Above all, they needed to defeat Lord Voldemort.

She owed him something she herself couldn’t understand, let alone explain to someone else. And right now, there just wasn’t time to speak of the possible redemption of a dead boy.

Taking one last look at the body of Draco Malfoy—the one she couldn’t save—she had a raw thought, louder and wilder than any her mind had conjured before.

_Would she have done the same for him?_


End file.
